


A Lesson in Defiance and Futility

by FoxglovesAndThorns



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, American Revolution, Bondage, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Gang Rape, Gangbang, M/M, Out of Character, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23077276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxglovesAndThorns/pseuds/FoxglovesAndThorns
Summary: Alfred Jones, a Continental Army junior officer, is captured by the British. Lieutenant Commander Kirkland intends on using whatever means necessary to get intel out of him.
Kudos: 38





	A Lesson in Defiance and Futility

**Author's Note:**

> \- Read the fucking tags.  
> \- Human names only.  
> \- Extremely OOC as far as canon goes, but this is Hetalia so who cares?  
> \- England does not directly engage in any sexual activity in this story, he is merely present while it is happening.  
> \- Unbeta'd.

Cold morning air chills the irons around Alfred’s wrists and ankles, sending a shiver through his lithe, food-deprived body. The blindfold obscures any visual clues of his surroundings, but when the wagon stops in the middle of a bustle of voices and hoof-beats, he deduces that they’ve arrived at a British camp. It is a relief after days of uncomfortable travel with little food and drink; a nearby fire warms his bones but the dread of being deep in enemy territory ices his gut. Any chance of rescue or escape is nearly zero, barring a colonial ambush.

As he is hoisted from the wagon and practically dragged by the arms to the commandant’s tent, Alfred silently curses himself yet again for his capture. He had been thrown off his horse during the battle at Guilford via an artillery round striking the earth nearby, and before he had his wits he found himself surrounded by bayonets and muskets. A part of his brain had screamed at him to draw his sword and either make a final stand or slice his own throat open but cursed survival instincts stayed his hand.

He knows why he is here; General Greene personally warned him of the possibility of capture. _“You are an officer now, Jones,”_ he told Alfred, _“which means you are now valuable to the enemy as a source of information. If you are captured, you are not to give so much as a hint of plans, strategy, personnel, supplies--you give them nothing, do you understand?”_

 _“I understand, sir.”_ Alfred intends to honor the request, even if it means his life.

He clumsily stumbles over his irons as the two redcoats carrying him shove him into a chair. The blindfold is ripped off his head and he squints painfully as his eyes adjust. He finds himself in a sparsely-decorated officer’s tent, illuminated by a single candle on the desk and rays of light pouring in from gaps in the canvas. Across from him sits a young man--roughly the same age as Alfred but clearly of higher social standing--wearing a typical brigadier’s uniform, and he sits alone, although Alfred knows that a pair of guards are standing just outside. The officer has golden hair like his but cut shorter, and strikingly boyish features that contrast his mature demeanor. He hasn't bothered to look up from his papers, feathered quill scratching against parchment for a few long seconds before he finally speaks.

“You are the Lieutenant they captured at the courthouse,” he says as a statement, not an inquiry. “One of General Greene’s, I’m guessing. A fine warrior, he is. Lost many men to his command.”

Alfred isn’t sure if he is supposed to respond so he remains silent, focusing instead on the quill as it is docked in the nearby inkwell. The British officer sits back in his chair, fingers threading together in front of him, and he finally looks at Alfred, dark green eyes set beneath thick brows. He continues, “I also suppose you will not easily dole out anything valuable.”

Alfred knows to speak this time. “You might as well kill me if that’s what you’re after and save yourself the trouble.” The edge of his words are blunted by hoarseness brought on by thirst, and the British officer reaches over and offers the glass of wine sitting nearby. The rim is brought to Alfred’s lips but he refuses, turning his head away and prompting a long-suffering sigh from the other man.

“I figured you would say that,” he says before taking a sip of wine himself. “You colonials are not easy to crack. We’ve captured many like you and few relent.”

The thought of _relenting_ unsettles Alfred, but he sets his jaw and tries to look unmoved. The redcoat, no doubt noticing the subtle shift in demeanor, smiles. He stands, stalks around the desk, and sits casually on the edge to the right of Alfred.

“What is your name?” he asks as he removes his gloves, apropos of nothing. Alfred can only snort at such an absurd request. “I am Lieutenant Commander Kirkland, the cavalry leader of this regiment,” the redcoat continues. “If you are a gentleman, you will offer your name in fair exchange.”

Alfred weighs his options for a brief moment before settling on remaining silent. He looks away to drive the point home and expects the Briton to be angered at such impudence, perhaps even strike at him with a glove. Instead, the man cracks an expectant smile.

“I shall give you a name, then: Lieutenant Yankee.”

They sit for a few long heartbeats until Alfred feels a warm, bare hand on his chin, and despite his best efforts to resist, his head is tilted to and fro as if being examined for some kind of medical experiment.

“I must say, I’m glad to see that my soldiers did not rough you up on the way here, it would be a pity to see your handsomeness marred. You and I are lucky to still have our youth. Many soldiers our age quickly look well beyond their years, what with the stresses of war.”

Taken off-guard by such a seemingly irrelevant statement, Alfred wrinkles his nose and turns his head away, unlatching himself from his grip. “Is insulting my appearance your idea of torture?”

“Not insulting,” Kirkland corrects, showing no sign of offense as his hand returns to clutching his gloves. “Merely observing.”

Another moment of quiet and Alfred’s anxiety grows. Why is this redcoat being so polite? Why isn’t he threatening him? He had expected the beatings to start by now. Or, at least, some sort of incentive to get intel out of him; offers of land and wealth back on the home islands if he betrays his comrades. Why wax poetic about names and appearances?

Alfred steels himself and says, “Lieutenant Kirkland, with all due respect, I do not intend on giving you any information, so--”

“Yes, yes, I know, spare me,” the Briton interrupts with a hand-wave and an irritated sigh. “I am well aware that you will not give me anything, at least not right now. However, we have reasonable suspicion that there is going to be another battle soon and it is one we cannot afford to lose, not after Guilford. As you are the only officer I have at my disposal, I intend on extracting everything I can.”

Desperately wanting to get on with whatever awfulness is planned for him, Alfred says, “Please begin the _extracting,_ then.”

Kirkland squeezes his gloves and he eyes Alfred from head to toe before speaking again. “Very well. I will have you sit with the other prisoners for the rest of the day. You will be summoned back to camp after supper. I can assure you that whatever ends up happening to you, it will be unlike anything you have experienced before.” He punctuates the words by leaning in close, their faces mere inches apart. “I prefer not to take such drastic measures, being an English gentleman of civility, but I have orders to get you to talk as soon as possible. You understand, I’m sure.”

“Whatever your instruments of torture end up being, it’s all just pain in the end,” Alfred counters, trying to sound as defiant as possible.

Kirkland laughs--this time genuine and unguarded. “We shall see.” He summons the guards and has Alfred taken away.

* * *

At twilight, two guards arrive at the prisoner’s holding to fetch Alfred. Instead of being brought back to the commandant's quarters, however, he is walked to a tent off towards the edge of camp, close enough for protection but far enough to be private. Before arriving at the entrance, Alfred swallows hard and inhales a deep, long breath.

 _Whatever it is, it will just be pain,_ he mentally reassures himself. _You can endure pain._

Inside, he finds Kirkland and a handful--eight, he quickly counts--regular soldiers idling about, some standing and others sitting. In the middle of the tent sits a square, desk-like table, with two leather fastenings at the furthest corners. Alfred is brought to the table, has the chains around his wrists removed, and is hastily fastened to the table in a humiliating face-down position, his blue coat stretched tight round his shoulders and arms.

Based on his position, Alfred assumes that he is in for a caning or flogging. It won’t be pleasant, he thinks almost in relief, but it also isn’t the worst punishment he can imagine.

The officer approaches and threads gloved fingers through Alfred’s hair, causing him to flinch. He cannot see Kirkland’s face but he can easily picture the same neutral expression from earlier that day.

“You’ve had ample time this afternoon to mull over your predicament. This is your last chance to offer any information, Lieutenant Yankee,” he says evenly as he rolls Alfred’s cowlick between his fingertips.

“Just get on with it already.”

Kirkland pauses, then withdraws his hand. “As you wish.” Alfred cannot see but Kirkland must’ve stepped away and gestured to one of the regulars nearby, because he hears footsteps approach and stop behind him.

His trousers are unceremoniously shoved down past his stockings to his ankles, still encumbered by irons. The cool evening air bites at his now-bare, sensitive skin, and it prompts Alfred to awkwardly shuffle on his feet, eliciting an amused chuckle from the soldiers.

His face burns from the humiliation but he knows that he is strong, that no matter how hard or how long they torture him, he will never relent. Alfred steels himself, gritting his teeth and tightening his muscles in anticipation of a strike.

_I have to be strong. If they beat me to death, so be it._

Alfred’s flimsy mental barriers crumble when he feels hands instead of a cane, thick fingers running along the curve of his ass and pulling his cheeks apart to expose his hole.

The sensation of being groped in this manner is so utterly alien to him that Alfred’s mind temporarily blanks until it washes over with panic. He lets out a pathetic whimper and yanks uselessly at his restraints, a reaction that only draws the remaining soldiers to crowd around and jeer at him.

“The Lieutenant Commander wasn’t lyin’ when he said he’s pretty, he looks just like a girl from behind,” a disembodied voice to the left sneers.

“D’you think he’s untouched?” asks another.

Alfred stills from his fruitless wriggling when he feels something--a finger?--enter him, only a few centimeters but enough to cause discomfort, another new sensation that fills him with confusion and disgust.

“Oh, definitely,” replies the man violating him before he shoves his dry digit further inward. It bends, pressing against walls Alfred didn’t even know he had, causing him to yelp in surprise-pain. “He’s as tight as a vice. Get me some slick.”

He hears some movement behind him as one of the men hands over… something, Alfred isn’t sure. The initial shock wears off and Alfred, feeling his heart pounding in his chest, moves to somehow get out of _whatever_ this situation is.

“Lieutenant Kirkland, I-- _ah_ ,” Alfred’s voice is cut short when the finger suddenly pulls out, “I-I don’t know what you are planning here, but surely a gentleman would never allow--”

“These men are going to violate you,” Kirkland states distantly, off somewhere at the far end of the tent. “All of them. You will have multiple chances to give me what I want but if you do not, I can assure you that there will be more, every evening, until you break.”

Alfred’s breathing grows faster and when he feels something cold and wet against his entrance, he relents to begging. Sod it, he’ll cry, he’ll scream, he’ll do whatever he can except betray his country to get out of this.

”This is barbaric, please, don’t--” Two slick fingers circle around his hole before entering him again, stretching him apart and knocking the wind out of his lungs.

“War often calls for barbarity,” is the cold reply.

Realizing that appeals won’t work, Alfred thrashes in his restraints, prompting the soldiers to pin him down by the arms and waist. He wants to yell but finds himself unable to--he fears what would happen if he did, and knows it will unlikely bring any help.

“Calm down,” the soldier behind him chides as he scissors his fingers, stretching him wide, drawing a whimper out of Alfred. “It’ll be worse for you if you don’t relax.”

After what feels like an eternity of prodding, the hand withdraws and he hears fabric rustling and the wet sounds of flesh being slicked with some kind of oil.

Alfred is, as the soldiers guessed, a virgin. He has yet to lie with a man or woman, dedicating himself to his family farm and then the war effort. He knows what sodomy is and the punishment for engaging in such an act but never dreamed of being on the receiving end of it himself, and was up until now blissfully ignorant of the particulars. When a large, blunt object presses against his entrance, he knows what it is and what it means--that after this he will have to live with the fact that his first sexual experience was being taken against his will.

His thoughts are interrupted by the cock pushing inside, meeting some resistance before breaching the tight ring of muscle. Alfred can’t even scream, all that leaves him is a strained gasp, hands clenched in white-knuckled fists. The sensation of being split apart is indescribable; he’s been injured plenty of times before, both during his youth on the farm and in the heat of battle, but this is an entirely new kind of pain. He lets his forehead hit the desk and fresh hot tears drip onto the wood.

“Good boy,” one of the soldiers coos as he rubs Alfred’s still-clothed back. “That’s it, take it nice and easy.”

Once the man is seated fully inside him, he grabs Alfred’s hips and begins to thrust, the preparation doing little to ease the pain. He is uncomfortably pushed into the front edge of the table with every inward shove, and he feels his trembling legs being pushed apart as far as his irons allow by the redcoat fucking him. He moves slowly at first, almost agonizingly so, occasionally muttering _so tight_ and _that's it_ and _take it_. The other men join in on the leering, calling him all sorts of sordid names and remarking how pretty and whorish he looks getting turned out. All Alfred is able to focus on is the pain radiating from his ass down his legs and up his back, making him simultaneously sore and weak.

Alfred can only lie there and take the abuse. While his body finally adjusts to the intrusion, growing numb from the waist down, shame burns deep inside him. He tries to cease his crying, tries to not give them the pleasure of seeing him broken, but he cannot stop himself from letting out short, pained moans every time he is thrust into.

“I think he likes it,” a voice chimes in. “Listen to him.”

The redcoat inside him lets out a breathy laugh. “I’m certainly enjoying it.”

He increases his pace, his grip on Alfred’s hips tightening as his movements grow erratic, causing Alfred to feel a new surge of pain. A few more strong thrusts and after what feels like an eternity the man stills with a grunt. Alfred cringes and buries his face into the table when he feels hot seed deep inside of him, some of it leaking down his thighs. He feels strangely empty and exposed after the redcoat pulls out with a satisfied sigh, finishing the job with a light smack on his left cheek.

A voice from across the room cuts through Alfred’s daze. “Will you talk now?”

He has almost forgotten that Kirkland is there and he somehow manages another wave of embarrassment. A man of similar post, a respectable man, just watched him get abused and debased… perhaps even enjoying the spectacle. Alfred considers the situation for a moment; he is sore, defiled, and humiliated, but at the same time the deed is done, so what does he have to gain by surrendering now? He might as well keep what little honor he has left and let himself be run through by all of the men in the room. He is already claimed, knows what it feels like, knows the pain.

“Go to hell,” Alfred croaks in barely above a whisper.

The men laugh in unison, clearly pleased they will get their turn.

The second soldier is not as accommodating as the first. He pushes in and immediately begins to ravish him, leaning down over Alfred so his chest is flush with his back. He breathes hot into Alfred’s ear and he can hear him grunt and whisper filthy sweet-nothings as he fucks into Alfred without finesse. Another redcoat rounds the table, pulls out his cock, and strokes himself mere inches from his face, prompting Alfred to grimace in disgust. He grabs him by the hair and lifts his face so he can fully see his cock--a straining, thick shaft.

“You are so pretty,” he says as he digs his fingers into Alfred’s scalp. “I’m going to come all over your pretty face. How d’you like that?”

Alfred doesn’t answer. He figures focusing on the soldier in front of him is preferable to the one pounding him from behind. With three final thrusts and a long groan in his ear, the redcoat seats himself balls-deep inside Alfred and fills him with another load, an ample amount dripping onto the trousers around his ankles. He lies on top of Alfred, panting wildly, until the other men hound him over giving them their turn. Not long after, the man jerking off aims his dick at Alfred’s face, who is unable to turn away with a hand gripping his hair.

“Don’t--” he warns in futility before the redcoat spurts wet white ribbons across Alfred’s face, a line marking his freckled nose and the rest landing on his cheeks. It seeps down his face and he has to purse his lips together so he doesn’t accidentally taste the musky seed, face contorted in disgust.

The remaining soldiers take turns doing more of the same. By the third man, he is so slicked by the previous men’s come that the penetration hardly hurts at all. One is relatively gentle, moving inside of him in slow, long strokes, while another relentlessly pounds him into the table. One slaps him across the face, leaving a harsh red mark on his left cheek, and another gathers a glob of release and shoves the soiled digit inside his mouth, forcing him to eat it. Most unload inside of him, leaving him feeling full in a way he never imagined, but one decides to make his mess on the back of Alfred’s thighs.

All the while, Alfred tries his best to will himself away from the tent. He recollects fond memories: the wide fields of his farm, the first time he got to meet General Washington and share a meal with all of the high command, the sweet aroma of his mother’s stew. He is not able to focus on them for long, as something--a slap, a hard thrust, a taunting insult from one of the men--inevitably snaps him back to reality.

The room reeks of sweat and sex by the time they all have their fill. Too weak to support himself with his legs, his feet dangle uselessly as his entire weight is held up by the desk. His ass and thighs are soiled, stained white by the release of strange men, and his stretched, abused hole leaks fresh seed onto the floor. The men right themselves with chatter about how good of a fuck he was, the tightness of his hole, how they hope they will get another go at him in the future. He hardly pays them any mind, his brain a shorted-out, hollow shell.

Alfred is so out of it that he does not notice Kirkland approaching him. The officer leans down so they are face-to-face, still wearing the same placid expression as before.

“Give me what I want and this ends tonight.”

Despite feeling numb, used, and humiliated, Alfred summons enough strength to reply, “No.”

“Do you want my entire regiment to have their way with you?”

“The entire British military,” Alfred mumbles, “could have their turn several times over... and I will still refuse to talk.”

Kirkland straightens himself and snorts. “We will see about that. For now, you will remain here and consider your options. Rest well, Lieutenant Yankee.”

A clamor of footsteps fills the tent as Kirkland and his soldiers make their exit, leaving Alfred filthy and exhausted on the table. He is cold, ashamed, and broken, but he still manages a small, proud smile.

_I kept my promise. I still have my honor. They can never take that away from me._

Alfred rests his head on the soiled wood and lets his tears flow freely.


End file.
